Dead trees There’s a life in rainy daydreams There's a beauty in the breeze There is grace in cracked up sidewalks There is hope in dying trees There is pain in every mystery Bitter truth in every lie Too much longing in our mis'ry Too exhausted now to cry We'll find companions when we're lonely If we'll only make some room Greater wholeness in our breaking It takes a death for seeds to bloom
This has been a season of death. Not necessarily physical death. But spiritual, emotional, and situational death. I see it all around me. It becomes more and more apparent every day. Everything is dying. At first I grieved. I grieved and wept and raged. Some of the things that died were bad things and with those I was okay. But many if not most were good things, wonderful things, beautiful things.
But they still needed to die.
We assume constantly that if something is good, it is good for it to live forever.
Was not Christ perfect? Did he not die?
We always embrace seasons of life but refuse to embrace seasons of death. Life seems right, but it isn’t always. Mold grows. Disease grows. Corruption grows. Life can be evil. Death can be good.
Consider the trees. For them to live, a seed had to die. Are we not seeds? Are we not meant to be like Christ? Is it not right for us to know death?
But it feels all wrong. It seems like injustice. It reeks of relapse. It’s drenched in darkness. But sometimes that’s where the path leads. Sometimes that’s where God is. In the darkness.
There’s a quote I love from C. S. Lewis. It says: “Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of – throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”
God is making us new. To do that, things need to die. Good things, whole things, comforting things. Cast them to the wind. Cast yourself on the hope of Christ.
Die, and be made new.
With Cacoethes Scribendi,
The Indefinable Emotion